


Heart On Fire

by shakespeareslark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Coming of Age, Copious amounts of cheese, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26549593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareslark/pseuds/shakespeareslark
Summary: Arthur is the stereotypical jock, Rhaegar is the quiet music kid. When their worlds collide in the kind of vicious gossip-storm that only high-school can create, nothing will ever be the same again.
Relationships: Arthur Dayne/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> For J, the other half of my singular brain-cell and the one who encourages all of my bad ideas.

Arthur Dayne would like to argue that the very concept of detention is grossly unfair. In what world is it justifiable to punish someone for being late by making them sit in an empty classroom, stare at the wall and contemplate what they have done? There is a word for that and it’s called prison. So what if he was five minutes late for English class? It’s the school’s fault after all for scheduling his classes so that he has to practically run across the entire campus after Gym and arrive with his hair still dripping wet from his shower. If Mrs Hill had actually thought about it, she would have realised that he was doing the world a favour by taking those extra five minutes to shower. Never let it be said that he wasn’t conscientious and that his mother hadn’t raised him and his siblings well. Sadly she refused to accept his point of view for some reason and he was forced to slide into his chair, a pink lunchtime detention slip clutched in one hand before she could follow through on some of the darker threats she had been making.

In front of him, Jon Connington turns to smirk at him and Arthur gives his chair a swift kick in retaliation. While they shared most of the same classes, the redhead had the luck to have his mandatory school-board-enforced exercise period last class on a Tuesday. Meaning, he could take his sweet time in the shower with the knowledge that the only person he was inconveniencing was Arthur who gave him a lift home every day. This habit partly came about from the fact their houses weren’t far from each other but also from the fact that in addition to the majority of classes, they shared sports practices; lacrosse, football, basketball- even badminton in summer. 

School and academics had never made much sense to Arthur, much to his frustration. He didn’t know what it was. Allistair, his older brother, was some kind of maths genius; Ashara was the darling of every English teacher she’d ever had with her natural gift for words and poetry; and even Allyria, the baby of the family, was dazzling her Kindergarten teachers who declared her to be a child protegee. Meanwhile, he averaged a C-grade in just about everything except for Gym. Somehow sport just made sense in a way that nothing else did. When he was playing, the rest of the world fell away and his mind kicked into overdrive. Put him in front of a science book, however, and he’d struggle to get through even a page without yawning. While his family had never directly said that they were disappointed in him but he could see the way their eyes lit up at the other school reports and the slightly tightening around their lips when they got to his. Most of his teachers wrote every year that they thought he could do better if he just put in a little more effort and that’s what he suspected his family thought too.

The truth was that Arthur did try. But no matter how many times Allistair explained the maths problem or how many hours he spent trying to memorise the dates of various dynasties for history class, none of it ever stuck in his head. It was as though his brain was a sieve designed to filter all of it out. Whenever he tried to explain this to someone though, they never understood and would just try to offer him useless study tips like find a quiet place as if he hadn’t heard them all a hundred times before. So, Arthur just accepted his position and the generally-held view that he was a “dumb jock”. It didn’t matter anyway; he knew what he wanted. The second he graduated, he was enlisting in the military. He’d already done several boot-camps and the general running them had praised him warmly and promised to look out for him. 

All of that, however, was at the very least one English class and one lunchtime detention away. With a sigh, the Dornish boy comes back to himself and tugs out his copy of Wuthering Heights, flipping through it to find where they were currently reading. As much as Mrs Hill might claim that this is some sort of quintessential classic, the plot seemed to make absolutely no sense and nothing had happened so far. It started with some dude staying with his neighbours during a storm, then there had been the exciting prospect that it involved ghosts but it turned out they were merely of the metaphorical sort which was around the point where he lost interest. Now they were at the part where Heathcliff was eavesdropping on Catherine’s conversation with Nelly. Unlike their previous teachers who had accepted the half-hearted mumbles students made at reading aloud, Mrs Hill insisted -- perhaps to torture her students-- that they actually act it out. And, as if it wasn’t bad enough that she was forcing teenagers to stand in front of the entire class, she also insisted on gender-blind casting. 

Not that her current choice was particularly offensive… Rhaegar Targaryen was pretty enough to get away with playing a girl. Arthur props his chin in his hand as he watches the sunshine coming through the tall windows play with the silver of his hair to create the effect that the strands are almost molten. They’d had classes together for their entire four years of high school and yet Arthur is pretty sure they’ve never exchanged more than ten words in all that time. They ran in different circles, with only a few overlapping friends- such as Elia Martell who was currently playing Nelly. She had been Arthur’s childhood friend and was now, according to the school rumour-mill, Rhaegar’s current girlfriend; nothing could be officially announced because of how strict his father apparently was when it came to dating. The two definitely seemed comfortable around each other; his silver-head resting on her shoulder as Rhaegar pours out Cathy’s speech about how Heathcliff was “more myself than I am” with such conviction that Arthur was almost sure he could hear a few girls actually sniffling. 

Seven help me, he thinks with some amusement. The scene finished with the arrival of Joseph; Elia and Rhaegar sat down to thunderous applause, mostly from the female side of the class. Mrs Hill standing up again to guide the class back to a discussion on the imagery and apparent symbolism being Arthur’s cue to tune back out of the class, spending the rest of the period engrossed in replaying the tactics from their practice last night and running them over and over in his mind in preparation for the big game this week. By the time the bell rings, he’s pretty satisfied that their victory is all but guaranteed.

The remaining few periods pass in a blur; Mr Rivers despairs over the state of his history homework though this is nothing new, IT is at least passably interesting since it doesn’t involve theories and memorisation, and the Dayne is paired with Oswell for Chemistry which results in the two of them narrowly avoiding blowing up the lab when they accidentally leave the Bunsen on. Professor Slynt is still shaking by the time they’re filing out for lunch and muttering to himself about how he needs to retire.

“You coming to lunch?” Oswell asks, shaking off their close brush with death with an easy grin. In their near-decade-long friendship, there has only been a handful of times where Arthur has seen him actually serious. 

“Nah, got detention. I’ll catch you after. Tell Gerold he still owes me ten bucks.” 

With a salute, the younger boy peels off from his side and Arthur watches him disappear into the flow of students all heading towards the canteen. He turns, making his way back upstairs to where detention is held. Normally it’s pretty empty given that only half of Monday has passed, thus lowering the chances of students having managed to commit an unforgivable offense against the strict code of their private school already. Normally these include such crimes as having an unironed blazer, being ten minutes late to assembly or, in Oswell’s case, various pyrotechnic stunts both planned and unplanned. His gym rush earns him a regular weekly detention so Arthur is a self-declared expert on Monday lunchtime detention. There are none of the regulars he’s come to expect and know over the last few weeks of school however and in fact there is only one other person in the room when he enters. He actually has to do a double-check to make sure he hasn’t walked into the wrong room because that one person is no other than Rhaegar Targaryen, thespian, himself. With a spotless academic record and some clear favouritism from the teachers, it would have been a shock to learn that Rhaegar even knew what a detention was; let alone actually finding him here.

“Hey.”

The older boy glances up and gives Arthur a small nod over the book he’s currently engrossed in, not apparently interested in conversation. A quick peek reveals that it is in fact Wuthering Heights. Seven above, is Rhaegar actually rereading the assigned text in his free time? He takes a seat at his usual desk, next to the window and the perfect angle to the clock to allow best vantage. Spend every Monday in the same room and one comes to appreciate the small things. There’s a heavy silence in the room that he feels obliged to break by asking “Kind of boring isn’t it?”, indicating the book in his hands.

“Excuse me?” 

Suddenly there are indigo eyes focused on him and a frown on Rhaegar’s face that suggests he might have accidentally insulted his entire family in the most vile and offensive terms. “Did you just call Wuthering Heights boring?” 

“Eh, yes?” As the captain of the football team, he has been in a stadium with two thousand eyes focused on him, surrounded by cheering crowds, all attention on him and somehow none of it makes him feel as suddenly tongue-tied as Rhaegar’s intense gaze does now. “I mean, nothing really happens. Does it? There’s not even an actual ghost.” The last part comes out more sulky than he intended but he could swear one corner of the Targaryen’s lips actually twitches as if amused. 

“Perhaps Bronte had a different idea to you as to what makes a novel dramatic. Wuthering Heights wasn’t intended to be a thriller-” Rhaegar looks as if he has plenty more to say on the subject but he’s forced to drop his argument as Mrs. Hill enters. Arthur wonders if she overheard their conversation but she seems distracted thankfully. He’s already enough in her bad books as it is, without risking insulting a second person by sharing his opinion on Wuthering Heights. 

“Ah, good. You’re both here. Follow me, boys.”

They both trail her down the corridors to a cupboard Arthur vaguely recognises as belonging to the theatre department. When Mrs Hill unlocks the door and tugs it open with a dramatic flourish, it turns out to be some kind of hoarder’s paradise. The space is not big but every possible inch is filled with every kind of object one could imagine; old-fashioned walking sticks, giant papier-mâché models, assorted clothes and every inch covered with dust. 

Mrs Hill turns back to them with a huge grin. “Alright, boys! Mr Heddle has been begging me for weeks to help him find some volunteers to clean up the props department. So nice that you can help us out.” There’s something about the sugary sweetness to her voice that discourages Arthur from pointing out that they are not actually volunteers but forced participants with no choice in this matter and furthermore to call this cupboard a ‘props department’ would be very generous. “I’ll be back in an hour to see how much progress you’ve made! I can’t wait to be pleasantly surprised.”

They wait until she has disappeared before exchanging looks of equal despair and beginning the monumental and impossible task of bringing the clutter back into some kind of order. Rhaegar turns his attention to sorting clothes that range from some kind of monstrous sequinned creation to a costume Arthur vaguely remembers from last year’s production of Hamlet. Who knew how long it had been since some of these were chucked in here to await future detainees to sort them. Meanwhile the Dayne attempts to organise the shelves to create some more room.

“So what did you even do to get detention?” Arthur asks after a few minutes of working in silence.

“I smashed a harp.” 

There’s a strange look in Rheagar’s face when he sneaks a glance at it, a blackness to his face that seems to block off any further questions. The Dayne continues with the books he’s stacking before finally asking after a minute of silence, “… was it an expensive harp?”

That at least wins him another amused lip-twitch from the older boy. “Terribly expensive. My father bought it for me.”

“Must have made a horrific noise when it went over.” Arthur attempts to imitate the sound, his hand gesturing the fall of the harp. It’s stupid and childish but Rhaegar actually laughs at it; a genuine cackle kind of laugh which seems to catch them both by surprise. Somehow, he’d expected a Targaryen to be more dignified, more princely in reverence to their former glory before the monarchy had been replaced by a democratic system. It’s how he’s always perceived the silver-haired boy up until now; somehow floating above them all with only a vague awareness that there were other people there. But once he manages to draw Rhaegar onto the subject of music, he seems to lose all of his reservations and soon they’re arguing intensively over what is the best Guns N’ Roses album. 

“I cannot believe you think it’s Use Your Illusion when clearly Appetite for Destruction is the best album.“ They’ve given up any attempt at tidying by now since it’s not like Mrs Hill will able to tell anyway if the cupboard is in any better state than it was before. Rhaegar is perched what they’ve discovered seems to a box of exclusively left shoes, his legs drawn into his chest as he gestures wildly with his hands while he talks. It's kind of cute to see him so expressive.

“-Use Your Illusion one and two.” Arthur interrupts to clarify from where he’s sitting opposite him, his feet on the edge of Rhaegar’s box and his back settled comfortably against what he thinks was meant to be a model of a palm tree though he cannot remember any school productions that have ever had a tropical location. “Just to be clear, we are classifying them as one album in this situation.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” A pale hand flaps dismissively as Rhaegar shifts forwards, their knees brushing companionably in the tight space. “Look, I’m willing to accept the idea of considering them as one album but surely that doesn’t outweigh the outstanding-“

Whatever outstanding merits Appetite for Destruction has, he will never know as something catches his attention. “Don’t move.” 

“Why?” Rhaegar is staring at him with a strange look in his indigo eyes and he seems almost frozen as Arthur leans towards him.

“You have a spider in your hair.”

“What?” The Targaryen all but yelps. 

Arthur huffs a laugh, “I said don’t move!” He has to lean in close to catch the tiny insect, holding it up for inspection before leaning down to deposit it on the floor of the cupboard so it can scurry back to its’ little family who are waiting somewhere in the shadows. “C’mhere, let me check if any more crawled in there.”

Rhaegar holds still but his lips move in what the Dayne suspects is a series of swears in a language he doesn’t recognise. The silvery strands are softer than he was expecting, silky smooth against his fingers as he gently combs through it to check for rogue invaders. “Looks like you’re clear—” Arthur cuts himself off as the door of the cupboard swings open and the sudden bright light dazzles both of them after almost an hour in the dim light. For a second he thinks it is Mrs Hill coming back to check on them and he panics that they’re both going to get a second detention for slacking. But instead it is Cersei Lannister framed against the opening, surveying them in total shocked silence. 

Her bright blue eyes dart between them and in that second it suddenly becomes apparent that they are sitting close together in a dark cupboard and Rhaegar is practically in his lap and Arthur’s hand is still in his hair for some reason and it seems to occur to all of them at the same time how this might actually look to someone who did not witness spidergate because finally, finally Arthur drops his hand and steps back but it is too late because already the blonde is opening her mouth but the Targaryen is too, presumably to offer an explanation and perhaps explain what exactly they are doing sitting in a dark cupboard. But whatever innocent explanation Rhaegar was about to offer disappears in that instant because she screeches for the entire hallway to hear, “Oh my Seven, they’re making out.”

“Ah, crap.” Arthur says.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting anyone but my friends to read this. It is alarming and wonderful to know that other people are enjoying this. Apologies for the long delay. College started up again and sucked me in.
> 
> Thanks as always to J, my constant.

For someone whose birth was front-page news on every newspaper in the country, it might come as a surprise to most people to learn exactly how much Rhaegar Targaryen hates being the focus of attention. It’s bad enough normally with curious freshman elbowing each other every time he passes them in the corridor, murmuring to each other in excited whispers; thankfully by the end of the year, the novelty seems to wear off somewhat and they seem almost disappointed by how evidently not mad he is. Sometimes Rhaegar gets the wild urge to caper down the hallway, gibbering nonsense, just to see how they would react and to see if that would bring them a kind of joy to see a Targaryen losing their mind as they seem to secretly crave. But that kind of behaviour would be inappropriate; unbecoming of someone of his status and it would go against everything his father taught him.

Perhaps that is why he wants to do it. 

Arthur had sprung away from him as though Cersei’s words were a bucket of icy water, shattering the cosy atmosphere of that closet and pulling them both back to reality. It was only natural of course; anyone would have the same reaction. What Rhaegar does not want to admit to himself is how disappointed he’d felt in that second for reasons that had nothing to do with the potential fall of both of their social statuses and everything to do with the fact that Arthur Dayne had smelt surprisingly nice, like cologne and something he couldn’t quite place, and his hand had been warm and gentle as it combed through his hair. He’d almost slept-walked through the rest of the afternoon, paying no heed to the growing whispers and murmurs around him as the news spread like wildfire through the population of the school. The first Rhaegar knew of it was when his little brother Viserys walked into his room and threw a shoe at his head. 

“Ow,” He says absently, sitting up on the bed to rub the afflicted spot and study the younger with slight confusion; the confusion being only slight as shoe-related violence was an unfortunate habit of Viserys’ when it came to expressing himself.

“ _Why_ didn’t you tell me you’re dating Arthur Dayne?!”

“Because I’m not.” Rhaegar offers as an explanation, letting his hair cover his face momentarily to cover the brief flush that paints his pale cheeks.

“That’s not what I heard.” Viserys may have inherited all of their father’s physical traits but standing here with his hands on his hips and his expression indignant, he is the image of their mother. 

“Well, whatever you heard is a lie- wait, how did you even hear about that?”

“Aha! So there is something to hear about!” Viserys leaps up on his bed, tucking his legs into his chest. “Renly’s brother came to pick him up from school today and he was saying something about you and Arthur being queers and how Cersei Lannister found you two kissing in a closet together.”

“Don’t say that word.” Rhaegar corrects him automatically. There is something deeply unsettling about hearing his six-year-old brother say a slur unthinkingly, though of course he is far too young to know what it truly means or implies. “Arthur and I were cleaning a cupboard together in detention. Cersei opened the door and got the wrong idea.”

“Oh,” His younger brother seems to almost deflate at the idea that his hot gossip has been proven false before something occurs to him and his violet eyes widen comically with shock, “Wait, wait, wait. You got detention?! Do Mum and Dad know?”

“No, not yet. And yes, I did.”

“What did you do?!”

“I broke a harp… on purpose.” Rhaegar drops his eyes, unable to meet Visery’s gaze momentarily. “I got angry.”

Viserys nods, his face full of understanding. Sudden anger issues and the need to lash out with physical violence are something he himself is very familiar with. “Okay.” He says, leaning into pat Rhaegar’s cheek with unexpected gentleness. The gesture catches him off-guard and makes him smile. His brother clambers off the bed and disappears with all the suddenness of a summer storm; here one minute and gone the next. Rhaegar stares after him, lost for a second in the warmth of the gesture before reality hits him like a ton of bricks. Metaphorical ones unfortunately, wish though he might that they could be real bricks and inflict some kind of injury on him that would prevent him from having to attend school tomorrow.

Everyone in school is talking about how he and Arthur were kissing in a closet. Everyone in Viserys’ school is probably talking about how he and Arthur were kissing in a closet. But they weren’t, they hadn’t been and now the rumour is already so far out of control that there is nothing he can do to stop it. To deny it would just seem even guiltier. Vaguely the Targaryen is aware of the tightness in his chest, how fast his breathing sounds to his own ears but mostly he is aware of the sensation of falling even though he is frozen still on his bed. 

With trembling hands, he reaches for the phone beside his bed and brings up his most contacted number. He knows Elia’s schedule about as well as he knows his own and at 8pm on a Monday evening, Elia Martell can be found doing her homework like the model student she is and so she answers his call on the second ring.

“Rhae.” Her sweet voice greets him, using the nickname that only she and his family are permitted to use. 

“Elia,” He responds in a rush of relief, “Hey, I was just wondering-“

“ _Rhae_ ,” She repeats his name and immediately Rhaegar’s internal danger gauge swings to ‘oh fuck’ at the sugary sweetness of her tone which brings an immediate sense of doom with it, “My dearest, darlingest best friend and former boyfriend. When were you planning on telling me that you were dating Arthur Dayne?”

The needle that had been previously pointing to ‘oh fuck’ inches further into ‘you’re doomed, man’. Internally, Rhaegar makes his peace with the world and sends a prayer to the Seven that 5’1” Elia Martell makes his death a swift and relatively painless one. “I wasn’t planning on telling you anything because I am _not_ dating Arthur Dayne.”

There is a sudden silence in which he knows Elia is raising one eyebrow doubtfully, knows it as if she is here in front of him, because there is nobody else in this world who knows him as she does and nobody who he knows as well. “You’re not dating Arthur Dayne?” She repeats sceptically. “So you two were just making out in a cupboard-“

“- we were not making out in a cupboard!” 

“Okay, okay. So you two were in a cupboard, _not_ making out… why?”

“I got detention.” Rhaegar admits in a tiny voice, wincing at the sudden stream of curses that pour down the phone line with such ferocity that he’s obliged to hold the device away from his ear until the furious tirade eases. 

“Do your parents know?” Elia demands. From the sound of the background noise of traffic, he can gauge that she’s abandoned her books and is leaning out on her balcony. 

“I haven’t gotten to tell them yet.”

There’s a whole minute of silence, punctuated only by the sound of a distant siren in Elia’s neighbourhood. They both wait until it passes before she speaks again, “Good luck.” 

“Thanks.” His heart is already sinking at the conversation that awaits him. 

A heavy sigh comes down the line from the Dornish girl, both of them envisioning for a moment how that conversation is going to go. Being born into the former Royal family, Rhaegar’s entire life it seems has been filled with small talk with various important political figures, with classmates who didn’t know how to relate to him and even within his own family sometimes. Elia is the one person who doesn’t see the need for it and he is eternally grateful for that. They sit in silence for a few more minutes, the Targaryen resting his head back against a pillow as he listens to the steady rhythm of her breath and the distant sound of the traffic.

“I should go.” There is a weary note in her musical voice and he knows she is looking back at the pile of work that awaits her. The rest of the school sees Elia as the perfect student, but only Rhaegar sees the amount of work she puts into maintaining her perfect GPA along with various extra-curriculars and the toll it takes on her often delicate health.

“Yeah, me too. See you tomorrow?”

“You know it.” The smile is evident in her voice, “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Rhaegar responds automatically, hanging up when she does. Although the same pile of homework awaits him, he finds it difficult to concentrate and more than once he catches himself replaying that moment before Cersei walked in when Arthur’s hand had been in his hair and the Dayne’s eyes had been liquid in the dim light. Would they have kissed if they hadn’t been interrupted? Or was that just some kind of friendly gesture that Rhaegar was reading too much into? Seven knew he didn’t have much basis to make a comparison of how friends should act around each other, but somehow hair-stroking in a dark cupboard did not seem entirely platonic. These thoughts do not leave him even after he abandons his books and gets ready for bed; in fact they only seem to plague him more as he lies awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling as he wonders idly if Arthur Dayne’s lips would be as soft as they look.

The next morning, Rhaegar wakes up bright and early but not well-rested. The house is still quiet when he snags a piece of toast and the keys to his car and the roads are relatively empty to his relief. He parks where he can see the entrance to the school and sits there, munching absently on his breakfast as students begin to stream in. There is no sign of Cersei or any of the extended Lannister family but ten minutes before the bell rings, a familiar red jeep pulls up across the lot. Arthur hops out, looking as if he at least managed to get a full night’s sleep. The thought brings a rush of disappointment followed quickly by a flush of embarrassment. What had he expected? That the resident sports star of Westeros High would stay up all night daydreaming about Rhaegar Targaryen? Unlikely. Violet eyes follow the Dornish boy as he is rapidly enveloped in a crowd of his friends, all high-fiving, playful shoving, and teasing with the effortless ease that somehow Rhaegar feels is always just out of his grip. Perhaps it was the years of home-schooling or perhaps he was always destined to feel somewhat alienated from his peers. Whatever the reason, he burns with jealousy watching as the gang move as one through the entrance of the school. 

Only then does he hop out, locking his car behind him and shoving his hands in his pockets as Rhaegar trails after them. They split up to go to their lockers; Arthur talking animatedly to a redhead boy Rhaegar knows is called Jon and he panics for a moment, thinking that perhaps they’ll keep talking and there won’t be an opportunity to talk. Then Jon peels off from his side and Arthur Dayne is left alone at his locker.

“Hey,” Rhaegar greets him quietly, fingers curling around the key in his pocket, his whole body held tense.

Arthur glances back, dark brows shooting up. “Oh, hey. How’re you?” He is obviously distracted by trying to extract a textbook from his overflowing locker. Rhaegar tries hard not to look at it and the precarious way in which the books are shoved in so abusively amongst sports gear, various wrappers and what looks suspiciously like a hamster cage. 

“Um. I wanted to talk to you about yesterday.” Students arriving at the school have begun to notice them and there is a buzz of conversation in the air. How much of it is about them? How quickly has the rumour spread? Does the entire school think they are dating now? Is this being perceived as some kind of cute coupley moment? 

“Ah yeah.” That finally gets the Dayne to turn around as he triumphantly pulls out the book in a Jenga-esque move. The entire structure somehow holds though it wobbles precariously. In any other situation, it would have been almost admirable. Something in the back of the locker squeaks but the door is slammed closed before he can ask any questions about _that_. There is almost immediately a more pressing concern because Arthur’s attention is now entirely focused on him and it’s overwhelming.

Rhaegar has to tip his head back slightly to look at him and he curses as eloquently as he can in High Valyrian in his mind because the Common Tongue cannot truly express his frustration that of course Arthur Dayne is just slightly taller than him. “You have to tell everyone that the rumour isn’t true.” He says bluntly, aware that there are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on him and the attention is making his pale cheeks flush.

In contrast, he could _swear_ the other almost looks like he has the nerve to be enjoying this. “Why?” Arthur asks, closing the door of his locker and leaning against it. He’s definitely smirking now, one dark eyebrow raised as he stares down at him. “You embarrassed about making out in prop cupboards with me?”

“We were _not_ making out.” The words come out slightly too loud and Rhaegar’s flush deepens as even more eyes turn in their direction. He continues at a more controlled volume. “We were in detention. Organising props.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Shut up. If _your_ hand hadn’t been in _my_ hair, none of this would ever have happened!”

“So you’re accusing me of coming onto you unfairly.” Arthur sighs deeply, a definite twinkle in his eyes and why had Rhaegar never noticed that they weren’t brown as he had assumed in the dim light yesterday but in fact a shade of purple? Almost amethyst in fact. This is momentarily distracting and he will later blame this realisation for what happens next.

The taller boy is already closing the distance between them, causing a momentary heart palpitation, to sling his arm around Rhaegar’s shoulders. His arm is heavy but not in an unpleasant way, the closeness allowing that smell of aftershave and something else to waft over him again. It makes him dizzy or at least that’s what Rhaegar tells himself as he allows Arthur to steer him down in the corridor. He must be running a fever or something because the body pressed against his is _warm_. For a second his imagination overtakes him with the thought that it would surely feel very nice to hold Arthur’s hand on cold winter days before his self-control puts a screeching halt to that idea before it can develop any further.

If there was buzz in the air before, it has escalated to open staring. He’s pretty sure one girl actually squeals. Thankfully Arthur seems to have a plan because the next thing, they’re in an empty classroom and the warm arm around his shoulders is gone. Rhaegar briefly mourns its loss. 

“Tell me why you broke that harp.”

This was not the question he was expecting and it takes a moment to put together an answer. “My father bought it for me. He thinks… he knows that I play and he hates it. So this was his way of… buying me.” Arthur is saying anything, just listening attentively as he leans back against a desk. Somehow it emboldens Rhaegar and he feels almost detached from himself as he blurts out, “He caught me kissing a boy. This was his way of ensuring I kept up my half of the deal… to be the perfect heir.”

“I see.” Arthur’s tone is entirely neutral, his head turning to gaze out the window for a long moment. “So you wanted to show him that he didn’t own you?”

“Yeah… I guess that’s what it was. I just… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t play it anymore.” 

“Hmm.” Those amethyst eyes are suddenly locked on him again and there is a smirk playing on Arthur’s lips. “How much would it get to your dad if you were to actually publicly date a boy?” 

The thought is so wild that it is almost mindblowing. “A lot. I… I can’t even imagine.”

“Alright.” The space between them is gone in an instant and suddenly there are tanned hands tipping his face up, only to be met with a bright grin. “Date me.”

“What?!” There is a real danger of Rhaegar passing out and he stumbles back a step, nervous laughter spilling over from his lips. “You’re mad.”

“Look. You want to get back at your dad, right? I can’t say I know how that feels but… the entire school already thinks we’re dating. So we don’t deny the rumour. Let it grow for a few weeks. Then we fake a break-up.” Somehow Arthur is presenting this in a way that seems entirely logical; that or else the Targaryen madness has finally caught up with him. 

Because then Rhaegar Targaryen does something even crazier than running down the corridor, screaming nonsense. He says yes.


End file.
